


addictive

by WeeBeastie



Category: Black Sails
Genre: Background Jack/Anne, Biting, Implied Anne/Max, M/M, Possessive Behavior, Rough Sex, Scent Marking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-05
Updated: 2017-11-05
Packaged: 2019-01-29 22:58:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,712
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12641025
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WeeBeastie/pseuds/WeeBeastie
Summary: he breaks me down, he builds me uphe fills my cup, i like it roughwe fuss, we brawl, we rise, we fall[some vanerackham smut for scrap and my tumblr crew]





	addictive

**Author's Note:**

  * For [scrapbullet](https://archiveofourown.org/users/scrapbullet/gifts).



> Another Tumblr fic! This one inspired by a prompt from scrap and discussions with her and others (hi!) about Charles and Jack's relationship. It's sort of PWP but there is a hint of plot if you squint.
> 
> Title and lyrics in the summary borrowed from "Addictive" by Truth Hurts.

Jack cares very deeply for Charles, perhaps even loves him. Really, he does. But there are some things Charles does that Jack does not love. One thing in particular, actually, surpassing all others.

The first time he does it, they’re only a few months into fucking. At night they go to bed together in Charles’s room at the Nassau brothel, and in the morning Jack wakes to Charles, still nude, insistently rubbing against him, his hard cock grinding on Jack’s bare hip. 

Jack opens one eye and squints dubiously at his bedmate in the bright light of early morning. “May I help you?”

“Yeah,” Charles rumbles and rolls over on top of Jack, lying between his thighs and setting his teeth to his neck. He bites down hard, practically gnawing on Jack, and it hurts but it feels so _good_ , too.

“Oh, my,” Jack murmurs breathlessly, arching into him. He’s still rather worn out from the night before, his hips aching and his lower back tight from the positions he'd assumed, but he’s more than willing to have another go. 

It burns only slightly when Charles pushes inside him, his way eased somewhat by the oil Jack has pragmatically started to keep at Charles’s bedside. He’s no stranger to having things inside him - he and Anne have entertained themselves in that particular arena often enough before - but Charles is _large_ , enviably so. Jack doesn’t think he’ll ever be able to take him without it hurting at least a little. The thought is terribly exciting. 

Charles goes a little easier on him than he did the night before, which Jack is mostly grateful for. He clings to him with arms and legs and hides his face in Charles’s neck, not caring that Charles’s hair is in his eyes, that the sweat from both their bodies is making them stick and slide together. Sex in general tends to be a messy affair; sex in the tropics is even more so.

“Jack,” Charles grits out as they get closer together, as Jack feels his body drawing tight, his toes tingling, his whole self right on the edge of glory. “Jack, Jack, _fuck_ ,” he snarls, and then he’s coming and Jack can’t help but do the same in a wet, slick rush between their bellies. 

He groans as he slowly recovers, a familiar and immensely pleasurable lassitude in his muscles now that they’ve finished. Charles pulls out of him without preamble and Jack winces, closing his eyes and pondering going back to sleep. A few moments later he cracks one eye open to suggest this to Charles - who seems to him to only sleep in fits and starts - and sees him doing something that at first his mind can’t, won’t, comprehend. It's too awful.

Charles is wiping the come and sweat off himself, which makes sense, but he’s doing it with Jack’s shirt. Jack’s fine mustard yellow linen shirt with the skillfully done embroidery, which will no doubt be conspicuously stained now. 

“Chaz!” he exclaims, feeling somehow betrayed. “Why on earth did you do that? Your shirt is right there,” he says, pointing. 

Charles drops Jack’s soiled shirt on the floor, the beast, and shrugs his broad shoulders. “Grabbed the first thing I saw. Can’t let the come dry or it gets itchy,” he says, like Jack doesn’t already know that from personal experience. 

“My shirt is ruined! I have to go and see people this morning, I'm already late, and it’s not like I have another shirt here in your room. What am I supposed to wear?” Jack asks. He’s fully aware of how petulant he sounds, but he liked that shirt, dammit. He’d searched so long for the right shade of yellow that wouldn’t make him look half-dead. 

“Nothing,” Charles says with a crooked little smirk, sauntering naked across the room to pour himself a cup of water from the pitcher on the end table. 

“I know you would happily gallivant around in the altogether every day if you could, but some of us prefer to wear shirts in public,” Jack grouses as he gets up from the bed. 

“So wear my shirt then,” Charles says nonchalantly, then downs his cup of water and wipes his mouth on his forearm. 

“It won’t fit right,” Jack says with a put-upon sigh, cleaning himself off with his own discarded shirt because it’s already ruined, anyway.

He pulls on his trousers and, after a moment’s hesitation, grabs Charles’s dark blue shirt from the floor and yanks it on over his head. It’s a terrible fit, as he suspected. The sleeves are at once too short and too loose, it’s big enough across the shoulders that it droops sadly on Jack’s narrow frame, and it’s just slightly too short to tuck nicely into his trousers. The neckline gapes on him, and the whole effect is just very obviously Wrong. It’s also not clean, if the pervasive scent of Charles’s body clinging to it is any indication. Jack sniffs a sleeve dubiously. It’ll have to do. 

“Are you coming? I'm going to see Anne first,” Jack says, taking his coat off the back of the desk chair and looking Charles up and down. He's the picture of debauchery - nude, glistening, his hair in his face and faint marks from Jack’s mouth on his neck and inner thighs. He's leaning against the side table, thick arms folded across his broad chest, and Jack suddenly feels flushed. Feverish, even.

“Got shit to do,” Charles rumbles, and Jack knows that's a lie but he knows just as well that it's best not to push Charles. He is unwilling to do things that don't suit his whims, and can react rather violently when his hand is forced.

So Jack goes downstairs to see Anne alone, but finds her sitting with Max, of course. He heaves a weary sigh and sits down across from them, flinching slightly when he makes contact with the hard wooden chair. Right. Mustn't throw oneself down haphazardly onto unyielding furniture after a night (and morning) spent with Charles.

“You are late,” Max says imperiously, and Jack cheerfully ignores her attitude as per usual.

“And a good morning to you as well,” he says, pushing his hair back from his face and smoothing his hands over it self-consciously. He hopes it isn't _too_ obvious what he's just been up to.

Anne leans in close to him, and for a moment he thinks she's going to kiss him hello. But instead she just sniffs at him suspiciously, eyes his love-bitten neck, and sits back in her seat with a sneer delicately curling her upper lip.

“You fuckin’ reek, Jack,” she says pointedly.

“Perhaps I should draw him a bath,” Max murmurs, smirking, and despite his post-orgasm buzz Jack feels a spike of irritation.

“Per’aps I zhould draw ‘eem a bath,” he snipes in return. Mocking her accent is not the most mature thing to do, he knows, but sometimes he just can't resist it.

The tone of their meeting doesn't really improve from there. 

\---

A few nights later, Jack is woken from a dead sleep (alone, because Anne is with Max yet again) by the sound of someone entering his room through the window. They do it in an admirably quiet sort of way, but it's hard to sleep through a large, hulking shadow easing itself in through a second-story window, regardless.

“Chaz,” Jack mumbles before he's even really awake, before he can actually make out the face of the figure in the darkness. He already knows who it is. Who else could it be?

Charles just grunts at him in response and noisily kicks off his boots, shedding his clothing so hilariously quickly as he stalks across the room to the bed that he's nude by the time he gets there. He pauses to grab Jack’s discarded scarf from where it's draped on the footboard, pressing it to his face, and for a moment Jack has a bizarrely sentimental thought: _he missed me_.

Alas, no. Jack manages to light the lamp on the bedside table and immediately sees the real reason Charles has purloined his scarf: he's been in a fight, and is holding the scarf to his split lower lip to staunch the bleeding. 

“Lord, no,” Jack whimpers, aghast, even though it's already too late, even though there's nothing to be done. “Do you know how fucking hard it is to get blood out of silk?! Jesus Christ, Charles! Is that the sole reason you came here, to yet again ruin my clothing with your bodily fluids?”

Charles takes the scarf away from his face, and when he grins, Jack can see that his teeth are stained with his own blood. He lets the spoiled length of colorful silk fall from his fingers and flutter to the floorboards, and then he's pouncing on Jack, straddling his hips. 

“Not the sole reason,” he rumbles, leaning down to press eager, bloodied kisses to Jack’s neck, mouth hot and wet on his skin. “You know how a good fight always makes me want a good fuck,” he purrs, biting Jack’s ear hard enough that he yelps.

“There are whores for that, you know. In this very establishment, in fact,” Jack says, a little reluctant to give in to Charles after he so rudely befouled his favorite scarf.

“Got no coin,” Charles says, slipping one hand between them to push Jack’s nightshirt up to his waist and start stroking his cock. His palm is rough in a familiar, spine-tingly way, and Jack’s pretty sure he's lying about being broke but right now it doesn't matter.

“You're an animal and frankly I don't know why I put up with you,” Jack says, breathless, suddenly _desperately_ wanting against his better judgment. His nightshirt is unceremoniously pushed off over his head and then he's being manhandled onto his stomach, Charles on his knees behind him, his hands somehow everywhere. It's maddeningly wonderful.

“Don't act like you don't enjoy this,” Charles growls in his ear, leaning over him to get at the small vial of oil on the nightstand. “We both know the truth, Jackie,” he says, and then his thick fingers are pressing insistently inside Jack, and he's helpless to do anything but zealously give in. Charles is right - he does enjoy this, maybe even more than he'd willingly admit. 

He feels his body open to Charles, feels him prepare him hastily like he can't get inside quick enough (Jack will ache tomorrow but he welcomes that, it gives him a thrill). Then Charles is pressing in and Jack pitches forward, hiding his face in his pillow so he won't cry out loud enough to wake every whore in the place.

Charles wastes no time. Once he's seated inside Jack he starts fucking him, setting a brutal pace that makes Jack’s teeth rattle and his toes curl. He's started moaning Charles’s name without even realizing it, turning his head on the pillow so he can breathe, gasping over and over again while Charles fucks him.

“Ah, god, don't stop, don't fucking stop, Chaz, _please_ ,” he whimpers, feeling himself blush at the neediness in his voice. But it can't be helped; being with Charles always turns him into an incoherent mess of lust and unabashed pleasure.

He rocks back into him, takes him as deep as he can. He feels Charles’s hand close around his cock and thrusts into it, moving greedily, needing more of everything all at once. Charles’s strong, sharp teeth sink into his shoulder and it's a little like how he imagines being mauled by a big cat would feel. He comes, shuddering, after a few more hard thrusts, starbursts exploding behind his closed eyes. Dimly he's aware that Charles finishes, too, and he hears him make a noise like a roar when he does. It makes Jack feel smug, on top of everything else.

He rolls onto his back after Charles pulls free of him, panting and flushed. He watches as Charles leans over the side of the bed and grabs the scarf off the floor, cleaning Jack and himself off with something approaching tenderness. Jack wants to protest the continued abuse of his scarf but he can't quite summon the words, especially when Charles stretches out next to him and presses himself to Jack’s side, sweaty head resting on his shoulder. Jack lies very still, not wanting to jinx what passes for a sweet moment between them, and falls asleep that way.

When he wakes at dawn the next day, Charles is already up, of course, staring right at Jack. He's sitting at Jack’s desk - or more accurately on it, still mostly naked. All Jack's important papers are scattered on the floor, and draped artfully on Charles’s bulky frame is a delicate silk robe in dark blue with a pale pink-and-white floral pattern. It's a gift Jack bought for Anne the day before, but it would seem Charles has claimed it for himself. Somehow, despite the patently ludicrous image of a large, muscled man like Charles wearing a woman's silk robe, he's not surprised at all. Charles is wearing it open, probably because it won't close on him - equally likely, he's wearing it that way because he so enjoys nudity for the sake of it.

“Why do you do the things you do, Chaz?” he asks softly, his voice hoarse from sleep. He sits up carefully and pours himself a cup of water from the pitcher on the nightstand, downing it quickly before turning back to look at Charles, who's busy fiddling with the tie on the robe and has yet to offer an explanation. “Well?”

“What d’you mean?” he asks gruffly, and when he looks at Jack, all he can think is how well that particular shade of blue suits him. Perhaps even better than it would've suited Anne, a voice whispers in his ear.

“You dissemble my carefully arranged paperwork, you steal gifts that you have to know were not purchased with you in mind, and perhaps most egregiously, you ruin my clothing with your blood and sweat and seed on a semi-regular basis. One wouldn’t be woefully off-target to assume you have no regard for my things at all. Why?” he asks again, folding his arms stoically over his chest.

Charles fidgets, looking momentarily ill at ease before his face settles back into its usual smirk. “Sending a message,” he says at last, leaning back on his hands on Jack's desk, thighs spread like he's just daring Jack to acknowledge his nakedness.

“To whom?” Jack asks quietly, twisting the edge of the sheet in both hands. He has a feeling he already knows the answer.

“Her,” Charles says simply, confirming Jack's suspicions. He slides down from the desk and saunters over to Jack, looking far more attractive and less ridiculous than he has any right to, dressed in an open silk robe and still wearing his cuts and bruises from last night's brawl.

“You don't need to do that,” Jack says softly, wrapping one long arm around Charles's waist once he's close enough, nuzzling into his flat, hard stomach. He expects him to pull away from such an obvious show of affection, but to his surprise Charles stays put and lets him love on him. Bliss. “She already knows about us, it isn't as though--”

“D’you want me to piss on you instead? Because that's the other option,” Charles says with an edge of humor to his voice, and Jack is surprised by how he doesn't actually thoroughly hate that suggestion. He'll need to investigate that impulse further. 

“No thank you, not necessary. She already knows you're trying to claim me as your property, she's seen the marks and smelled your scent on me,” he says, tipping his head back to look at Charles. “You're not subtle, Chaz, and she's smart.”

Charles leans down, grasping Jack's jaw in one hand and giving him a bruising kiss that's less about passion than it is possession. “Good,” he rumbles darkly, and then leaves, sauntering out of Jack’s bedroom into the busy, buzzing world of the brothel, wearing only an open silk robe.

Belatedly, Jack realizes he is perhaps a bit in over his head, having taken Charles Vane for a lover.


End file.
